Ceux Qui Histoire Oublié
by Watson124
Summary: It is the climax of the Hundred Year's War, and the English and French are mortal enemies. But that doesn't mean Arthur and Francis are. However, they have yet to learn that friendships, especially forbidden ones, may not always have a happy ending…


**Hello everyone~ So I have no idea where the idea for this fanfiction came from. Maybe it's because I was in a bit of a gloomy mood one day, maybe it's because I enjoy Hetalia, maybe it's because I like learning about the Hundred Year's War XD But no matter the reason, the moment I thought of this plot idea, it wouldn't leave me alone. Hence, we have this. This story had no defined theme or resolution; I just kind of let the story choose its own path. So, now, we have us some melancholy, slightly corny FrUk during the Hundred Year's War. Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Also, just FYI–I know nothing of how they organized military statuses in the wars of the medieval ages (I don't even know for sure if they had ranks XD) so if there are some factual errors, which most likely is the case, I'm sorry. Don't kill me, please! XP**

**Anyways, enjoy!~ **

Ceux Qui L'Histoire A Oublié

(The Ones Who History Forgot)

Arthur's POV

_Summer of 1427_

_This is war. It has been for ninety years now. This is war and torture, this is bloodshed, this is the stuff of nightmares. This is the sacrifice that must be made for the sake of our countrymen. In a war of such proportions as this, one mistake will lead to the annihilation of hundreds . Two mistakes, and the whole world will burn to ashes. _

_The stakes are even higher for I, the son of a nobleman and thus a leader on the frontline. One error, one misstep, and my faction of troops, as well as I, will die. _

_This is why I must keep my wits about me. I cannot–I must not–allow myself to be distracted by them. Or, rather, him. That man. I noticed him last battle, riding on the black tides of battle atop a white horse. His blonde hair caught the sun at an angle, turning it into a fiery halo and bringing into focus the dappled azure color of his cerulean eyes. Those eyes met mine for a split second, his blue meeting my emerald, before he was gone, swept away with the tide of war. _

_Ah, I fear I am getting ahead of myself. He is a French solider; I an English one. Thus, he is my enemy. _

_But his presence cannot be ignored, and not just by I alone. I heard earlier, after the battle, a few men amongst my troops talking about him, their envy and admiration for this strange, magnetic Frenchman evident in their voices and countenances. _

_"His name is Francis," I heard one say. "Francis Bonnefoy." One of them caught me listening and glared at me. But I hardly heard him accuse me of eavesdropping. I was processing what I had garnered from their conversation. _

_His name is Francis Bonnefoy, and he is a Frenchman willing to fight and die for France._

_And then there is I, an Englishman willing to do the exact same for my beloved Britain._

_I shall now say this to you, journal, and no one else: _

_When this war is over, I should like very much to know this mysterious man better._

_But for now, I must hate him._

_Farewell, _

_A. Kirkland_

2 Weeks Later

Francis's POV

The red, misty, haze of battle filled my vision as I fought onward, brandishing the tip of my sword as I pressed on across the battlefield. The deafening screams of those fighting and dying filled my ears in a heinous chorus shrieked by anguished warriors. But I did not even blink as I trampled my way through the heaving mass. Unlike last time, unfortunately, my horse, Espérar, wasn't with me this battle, so I was left on foot. But no matter. I could manage. I have survived through worse.

Ironically, as soon as I thought this, someone charged into me, slamming me down onto my back and standing over me threateningly, the hazy sun behind him. Despite these dramatics, I remained relatively unalarmed. I blinked slowly once or twice, managing to get my adversary into focus.

It was him.

It was the English soldier from the battle a few days ago. He was so streaked with blood and dirt that I may have doubted it was him, but those massive, dark eyebrows and blazing emerald eyes were absolutely unmistakeable.

As was the tip of his bloodstained sword, pointed an inch from my face.

I stared up at him, him down at me. Had it been anyone else, I would have taken care of this–of him–and been long gone by now. His body would be crumpled unconsciously in the dust and I would be numbly soldiering on, as focused on the battle as ever.

But this time, I was distracted. Distracted by the sudden flash of recognition–and something else–in his eyes.

He knew me. But would he kill me?

My silent question was answered when the Englishman drew back his sword. "Consider yourself lucky, frog. You're not worthy of death at my hand."

I just smirked, and rose as gracefully as I could to my feet, speaking my best English to him. "Alas, Anglias, I am indeed lucky to have not been killed by such an arrogant man as yourself."

The Englishman's eyes narrowed. "Do you want me to kill you, fool?"

I winked. "You wouldn't."

The latter's eyes flashed, an emerald fire blazing in his beautiful eyes. He raised his sword and pointed it directly at me, the tip just pricking my chest. "Don't count on it," he said warningly. Then he turned away and and began to stalk off, his head high. Even though his clothes were torn and covered in bloody mud, he still looked like the most noble man I'd ever seen.

"Wait!" I called after him.

He spun around. "What?" he snapped, irritated. "I have a war to fight, you stupid frog! What's so bloody important?"

I just blinked, undeterred by his temper. "What is your name?"

The Englishman smirked. "Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. You'd do well to remember me, Francis Bonnefoy."

Before I had a chance to ponder how he knew me or even savor the way he said my name, Arthur Kirkland had been swept away by the bloody tide of battle. I got a glimpse of him effortlessly getting the better of one of my nation's finest soldiers, and then he was gone, swallowed up by the battle and at war with my country again.

That night, after the slaughters had ended, my dreams were full of the stench of blood, the horror of death, and the strange, soft light in Arthur's eyes as he spoke my name.

"You'd do well to remember me, Francis Bonnefoy…"

Arthur's POV

_Fall, 1428_

_I am fortunate enough to be writing this amongst friends. Because I have been not as lucky the past two days. _

_It happened during another battle. (God, I am so, so bloody sick and tired of this endless, hopeless fighting day after day that just goes nowhere in the end.)_

_It was as I was taking down–yet another–French solider that I realized I was surrounded by my enemies. When I looked around anxiously for the rest of my army, they were nowhere to be spotted. The blasted cowards had abandoned me to our enemies!_

_Needless to say, I was captured, disarmed, and then taken against my will to one of the nearby French camps. I don't know which one; I can never remember those stupid, impossible-to-pronounce French names._

_They sent me to a makeshift prison, which was basically just a shell of a rundown, sorry shack hunched miserably in the corner of the camp. But I suppose I was lucky enough to even get that as a cover from that day's rain. _

_As it turns out, I was the only one they captured in that particular battle. Well, the only one they captured and didn't kill. Probably in the hopes of torturing me later for information. I am an English nobleman, after all. I could give them plenty of information about their adversary. Not that I would!_

_But guess which honorable Frenchman they sent to guard the lonely prisoner?_

_Yes, none other than the stupid frog himself. So, as he sat flirting with/guarding me…_

I glared at him. I was stuck in his shack, I had lost all feeling in my hands long ago (they were restrained behind my back), and I was so hungry I almost felt sick. I absolutely hated being so vulnerable in front of anyone, let alone someone from enemy lines, let alone this man from enemy lines. Well, he's not a man. He's an amphibian, but close enough.

"I swear to God if you say one word…" I hissed out through clenched teeth, glaring at him with blazing eyes.

Francis just laughed softly, gazing at me with an expression that made me both simultaneously despise and admire him even more than I already did. "I shall not say a word."

"Good," I growled. "You'll regret it if you do."

"Oh? And just what could you do to me?" Francis asked, and smirked at the look of pure hatred I threw him. "I am the one with all the power here, Anglias. You seem to have forgotten that."

I don't answer. There's nothing to say. I turned my head away and scan the rest of this camp. There's…I don't know, lots of French stuff. It's big, and full of strange buildings and even stranger people and I hate them all and why I just go home already? I was tired of this death game, this war…so tired…

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew a piece of cornbread was being shoved under my nose.

I recoiled, and glared at the frog offering it to me. "I don't need your charity," I spat. Although it would be much appreciated because I cannot remember the last time I ate anything at all…

Francis frowned. He was so close to me, I could see the lighter flecks of periwinkle in his eyes. Pretty…

"You should eat," he said.

"I do not take orders from you," I said resolutely, straightening up as much as I could. I made myself not even look at the food my body was screaming for, and instead focus on the steady, familiar, blue gaze of this Frenchman who I could not make heads or tails of.

The frog sighed. "Fine. Well, when you're ready to eat, here it is. You know, I shouldn't even be giving this to you." He placed the tantalizing food in my breast pocket of my coat, but didn't move away. His gaze abruptly changed from mild to piercing, pinning me where I stood. "The inquisitors will be here tomorrow. If I were you, I would eat something."

I just grunted, hoping that I would be long gone by then.

Francis sighed and turned away. I looked after him for a moment, debating breaking free, taking him out, and dashing epically out of here.

But then I decided it wasn't worth it. I wasn't sure I had the strength. And even if I did do that, I would most likely get caught again by the frog's stupid friends, who would most certainly kill me. And I couldn't die; I couldn't let my nation down, and nor could I abandon my mother and sister in favor of death, no matter how sweet the prospect of eternal sleep seemed right now. (But don't get me wrong, of course I didn't want to stay here near that frog! That's just crazy, right?)

So, I just sat down, leaning back against the rundown wall and staring up at the sky through the almost nonexistent ceiling. The clouds had gone, revealing an inky black sky flecked with cold, faraway, shining specks of light.

"The stars are quite beautiful, are they not?"

There's a shuffling sound, and Francis sits gracefully down beside me. I ignore the way my heart lurches hopefully in my chest, and place a nonchalant scowl on my face instead. "You just won't leave me alone, will you?" I ask him scornfully.

"I am under orders from my country not to," the Frenchman replies simply.

"So that's the only reason you're here? Because they told you to?" I feel slightly hurt, and I don't know why.

"Arthur." The way he says my name is both smooth and intense, his gaze boring into mine. I realize all over again how close to me he is; I can see every prick of stubble on his chin.

"What?" I manage, and lift my chin proudly.

"I have a duty to my nation, yes, but I also have a duty to you."

"So I'm just a job. Thank you, frog." I narrow my eyes warningly.

"Anglias, you are something, but you are not just a job," Francis murmurs, looking at me. His gaze meets mine, sharpens, and intensifies. My heart is thudding already for some reason unbeknownst to me, but when he leans in I worry it will burst out of my chest and crumple onto the hard, cold ground. Why am I reacting like this?

"What're you…" I manage, before Francis puts his hand on the back of my head; I can feel his cold breath against my cheek.

For one wild moment I am sure he is going to do something crazy like kiss me, but then he pulls back abruptly with something in his hand. I fight a strange feeling that reminds me of disappointment. What in the…?

"You had this in your hair," Francis says with a wink, brandishing a small, jagged chunk of metal and a rose. I have no idea where he got either of them.

He lays both on the ground beside me and turns away without a glance more. Then he says in a really loud, exaggerated way, not looking back, "Well, I suppose I'll go to sleep now!" and then repeats it again in French. He lays down on his side, his back to me. His breathing slows almost instantly.

I blink. I'm bemused, but not because I don't know what's happening. I understand he is letting me escape. But I don't get why.

Nevertheless, when Francis wakes up the next morning, my restraints are cut and the rose, as well as myself, are gone.

The Frenchman chuckles softly. "Être sûr, Anglias, être sur."

(Be safe, Englishman, be safe.)

Arthur's POV

_Late fall, 1428_

_I am beginning to doubt my position as a legible leader for my faction. I don't know why, but they all seem to be rebelling against me. Well, one in particular. I've caught him glaring at me more than once now, and the other day he accused me to my face of both overworking and under-appreciating the rest of us. (Even though I most definitely am not!) But I don't think it's my alleged "bad leadership" that's rubbing him the wrong way. Not to brag, but I think he might be jealous of me._

_He's also challenged me to a duel, and he, admittedly, is a skilled fencer. Hence, I now sport a long scar across my cheek, courtesy of his sword. But I won, of course. I managed to get him on the ground; I debated taking him out for good. I should have no mercy for those who challenge my authority in such a way. But when I tried to work up the nerve to kill him, I realized I couldn't. It is one thing to kill the enemies. It is another to kill a comrade, even if that comrade despises you and vice versa. I'm a soldier, not a murderer. There's a huge difference. I just hope this guy stays away from me now. He is a noble fighter, but also a potential problem. _

_Farewell, _

_A. Kirkland _

Francis's POV

It has been three years now. I haven't seen my Anglias once. I'm getting impatient. Well, impatient isn't the right word. You see, not knowing whether he is alive or dead is killing me. Not that I'll let onto it in the slightest. I don't know why I care; I shouldn't even be thinking about him, especially now. Lately, my country has hated our enemies more than ever.

For you see, Jeanne D'Arc, whom happened to be a very close friend of mine, died at the hands of the English not long ago. Now all that's left of her are her ashes. She is safe now, she is Home. But I still grieve for her. She should not have died that way. She should not have died at all.

But she did. The English killed her. The side that Arthur supports killed her. I should just dismiss him; I should just pretend that we never looked at each other with our thoughts and emotions written all over our faces. But I can't…

"Oi, Francis!" A voice interrupts my thoughts, and I turn to see a nobleman standing before me. "Snap out of it! We're going on patrol!"

I nod, and fall in step behind him and three or four other nameless nobodies. I don't know them; I don't care to.

Ever since the passing of Jeanne, our troops have taken to patrolling around our camps, keeping an eye out for intruders. The spies used to do this for us and–hopefully–warn us in time, but now all bets are off. We have to stay one step ahead of the game. Or that's what I keep hearing, anyway. Looking at the big picture, France is indeed beginning to win the war thanks to my Jeanne's fantastic efforts. But in the here and now, in the latest camp in the latest patrol, all I see is endless loops. Maybe it's because I miss her so much. Both her and Arthur. Perhaps grief is clouding my judgment. I do not know. All I do each day is go through the motions. A little bit of faked confidence and flirtation here, a brave, skilled slash of the sword there, and onward I go, empty.

But this was before the patrol leader called "Halt!"

We all skidded to a stop. I peered out from behind one of the nobody's heads, and saw immediately why we were told to stop. English soldiers surrounded us.

Arthur was one of them.

I see him at the same moment he sees me. Our gazes meet, and everything is almost alright again. Jeanne is gone, but Arthur is alive; he is alive and standing with my enemies. Thank goodness. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I know then that there is no way I can let him go. Nothing can make me forget him.

The French commander calls for battle, and Arthur and I head straight for each other. Our swords clash and clang together in perfect rhythm; I raise my sword, he does the same, and we bring them together with swift, certain confidence. I notice there a scar cutting across his right cheek and wonder briefly what happened before I have to duck away from his flurry of sword-swipes. He is a marvelous opponent. I recognize this immediately in the blaze of his eyes, the strength of his stance, and the firm, unceasing grip he has on his weapon. But he will not kill me; I know this. Because if he was going to, he would have done it already.

I do not know how long the skirmish struggles. Perhaps a minute, perhaps a hundred hours.

But then our commander is calling for a retreat, and the French soldiers begin to fall back. My soldiers and I do too, reluctantly.

However, before I am too far away, Arthur grabs my arm. "A coward would not meet me here again, frog," he whispers to me, his lips just brushing the shell of my ear.

My eyes flash. "I am not a coward!"

"Then meet me here at midnight," the Englishman breathes, his mint-scented breath tickling the side of my face like teasing, ghostly fingers. He lets me go, and I walk with dignity over to my retreating comrades. I'll be there. You can bet on it.

Arthur's POV

_Fall, 1431_

_Maybe I should just die._

_Because in all honesty, that night was indescribable. We talked, we fought, we drank, we ranted. We gazed at the stars, jumped at every crackle of the leaves should someone spot us, marveled at how insane this entire thing was. I even taught him how to speak in an English accent, and he learned quickly, picking up a flawless accent in no time. In return, he gave me yet another rose. He asked me about my scar; I lied and told him I got into a brief skirmish. There is no way I will have him thinking I can't control my own faction of soldiers. By the time dawn touched the sky and brushed it with her soft, gorgeous colors, we were sound asleep in each other's arms. (But of course, it was freezing that night…) _

_But now I do not know how I will be able to live with myself. _

_Because by the end of that night, we had both found the one person who understood us, the one person who we could fight with like nobody's business, the one person who we could say anything to and not fear judgement. _

_And then it all went downhill from there. I've hit rock bottom now. _

_Because we were caught. An Englishman caught us. And because this is my life and not some perfect damsel's, the Englishman who caught us is the same one who hates me. He's obviously been out to get me from day one, which is why he came at me instead of the Frenchman I was with. I didn't even see him coming. But Francis did. He killed him, but not before the Englishman had managed to land a blow of his own._

_The place we had chosen to meet was on the side of a hill. Grass was sparse, exposing the dirt beneath to the elements. It had been raining heavily lately; tonight was the first break from it. There was mud everywhere. Wounded, Francis lost his balance and slid part of the ways down the hill. By the time I managed to reach him, he was nearly dead from both seen and unseen injuries alike._

_But I brought him back. You'd think that'd be a good thing, and that saving him would mean that I wouldn't want to crawl under a rock and never come out. _

_But it's not as simple as that._

_I know black magic. I have bent it to obey my every whim and every will. That's what I used to cure him. But with the curing spell comes a cost: the person you cure will forget your name, and your name alone. Magic knows its existence must be kept a secret, and so that is the price to be paid. There is no spell I can cast that will make him remember me again. _

_Now, Francis Bonnefoy, the one who saved my life, does not know me. He will never know me again. _

_I want to scream._

_Farewell, _

_A. Kirkland _

Arthur's POV

_Winter of 1431_

_The war isn't over yet, but after nearly losing my legs in an intense skirmish, I have been discharged. I hardly care though. At least now I can return to my family in one piece, and forget this war. Forget…Francis. Blasted frog. He does not remember me; I should try to do the same concerning him. _

_Farewell,_

_A. Kirkland _

Arthur's POV

And I succeeded. For five years, I made London my home again. I caught up on the family news, I drank, I wrote letters to faraway relatives, tried not to remember. And I succeeded. I did not breathe a single word about him to anyone. I almost really did manage to forget.

But that was before I arrived at the market one day and saw him. Francis Bonnefoy, as noble and French as ever, in London, flirting with some ladies in a very convincing English accent.

Meanwhile, I was standing not three feet away, struggling to breathe. I felt as though icy water had just been abruptly poured down my spine. What was he doing here? In London? Right beside me? The cruel irony of coincidences.

When Francis turned around and saw me, irony's cruelty became almost inhuman.

"Hello, sir," Francis said smoothly, looking me up and down. I stood very still, longing to see some flash of recognition in his eyes. But they were as reserved and friendly as a perfect stranger's. My perfect stranger.

"What is your name?" Francis asked me, still with the same curious expression.

"A–Arthur. Arthur Kirkland." "Arthur. Arthur Kirkland. You'd do well to remember me, Francis Bonnefoy…"

Oh God. A thousand memories pour into me, each one searing my soul with the fire of a thousand suns.

"It is a pleasure to meet you," Francis says. "My name is Francis. Francis Bonnefoy." Then his neutral expression darkens, his eyes searching my own. My black cloud of grief begins to lighten up as I feel a flicker of hope.

"You seem sad," the Frenchman observes. "May I ask what about?"

"I, uh, I'm not sad. I…I have to go."

I turn and am about to dash away when I feel Francis grab my arm. I look back. "Let go of me, frog!" I snarl. I'm not angry at him, but rather angry at the fact that he's here…real…unforgettable.

"I cannot bear to see any man so sad," Francis said smoothly, seemingly unruffled by my infuriated tone. Just like he always was. "Please, you may confide in me. I know you do not know me–alas, you hardly know my name–but I assure you that you can trust me."

"I do trust you," I said simply.

"Then please enlighten me on what burdens your soul so heavily."

"I…" His eyes are so blue and kind. I can't bear to look at them.

I glance away, mumbling, "My troubles are none of your concern."

"Please–"

"NO!" I shout, not caring that people are beginning to stare. Five years' worth of pain is threatening to overwhelm me. "I am fine, I do not need your sympathy!"

Francis still doesn't look deterred. In fact, he looks interested. But not in my words, in something else entirely. "I say, have we met before and I just haven't recalled it?"

"No." The word tastes like salt in my mouth.

"Really? Because I feel like I've seen you before somewhere. Are you sure we haven't met before?"

"I've never seen you before in my life." My heart is numb by this point.

"Hmm. Well, I suppose I am just imaging things. Ah, I am becoming old!" Francis chuckles, a familiar sound that brings back euphoric memories and makes me want to sob. "I must go now. Farewell, Arthur. And I hope that your troubles give way to brighter days." And then he was gone, strolling into a pub. The doors open and clang shut behind him.

I stand there a moment, and then whip around and take off. I dart all the way back into my house and slam the door shut so hard the walls shake. I slide down the wall and bury my face in my hands, finally letting five years' worth of tears pour out.

He is not dead, but our intertwined paths were never meant to end in happiness. He could either be dead, or forget me altogether. And I had to be the one to make that choice for him. I allowed him to forget me; heck, I ordered him to. There is no chance now for us, our friendship, what we had. It is gone. We don't have the same…I don't know, spark. It is burned out. I can feel it.

He has forgotten. Forgotten me, does not remember what we had. If you asked him, he would know nothing of asking an English solider his name in the midst of a battle, or of helping that English solider escape from a French camp. He most certainly wouldn't remember meeting that very same English soldier many, many nights later. That meeting that led to this. The meeting was my idea, and thus this is my fault. I don't deserve Francis. Fate knows this; that is probably why it has taken him from me.

He has forgotten me; he has forgotten our history. And history itself does not know this sad tale either.

Because we are the ones history forgot. I am the one Francis will not remember.

I never returned to that marketplace. I never saw Francis again. I do not know what he was doing in London that day. But I suppose it does not matter anymore.

Because now, years later, I rest here in London, in my grave. But my spirit is far away in France, with the man who forgot.

**I apologize profusely for the length, and I hope it wasn't too corny or cliché, which is probably was O.o I'm not really confident with my writing… Anyways, please review!~ it means a lot to moi~**


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